


Icarus

by daring_elm



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: (mentioned at least; he did some fucked-up stuff as a kid), (vague h/c; more hurt/distraction), Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Damaged Wing(s), Disabled Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Fire, Gen, Logic | Logan Sanders Angst, Major Character Injury, Morally Ambiguous Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Permanent Injury, house fire, idk what warnings to use here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25609714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daring_elm/pseuds/daring_elm
Summary: An experiment goes wrong and Logan's wings are broken, but Roman knows what it's like to be flightless.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829092
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Icarus

Logan watched in terror as fire erupted from the flask, setting the air around him aflame. Black smoke wafted around him, clouding his vision and stinging in his throat. Logan couldn’t breathe. He dropped to the ground, digging through his mind for the protocols that had been hammered into his memory, his wings held over him like a shield from the fervent air. He pulled his shirt over his nose in hopes that it would ease his breathing. Tears pooled in Logan’s eyes and ran down his cheeks—they couldn’t begin to wash out the smoke; there was so, so much—Logan gasped for air and coughed out a cloud of ash. 

_ Where was the exit; he couldn’t find the exit; it had to be here somewhere— _

__ Fire crackled around him as he crawled towards the door. Logan batted away debris with his wings, wincing when something sharp and searing hot dug under his feathers. He clenched his teeth and kept moving.  _ So close, so close, don’t give up— _

Something snapped. Logan looked up just in time to see the burning tile crashing down—reflexively, he pulled up his wings, a last chance to soften the blow. The tile hit. Bone broke with a sickening  _ snap _ , but Logan couldn’t feel the pain—all he saw was a last blaze of light before everything went dark.

* * *

Logan tensed, then relaxed his shoulders. His wings shifted with him—he winced, forcing a deep breath. Even two weeks after the accident, he was lacking sensation in most of his left wing. Whatever wasn’t numb just hurt.

He was meant to take pain medication, of course—the doctor had been adamant on the matter—but Logan hadn’t done so in days. As pathetic as it sounded, even to himself, he preferred the pain to feeling nothing at all.

His eyes swept over his bookshelf. After a week of throwing a figurative Netflix-fuelled pity party, Logan had gotten sick of staring at screens and began rereading the hyperbolic library he had amassed over the years. Reading was a strenuous task, with pain and discomfort distracting him and various medications sapping his energy, but it took his mind off the massive burn wound spanning his entire back.

At least he was mobile enough to get around the house unassisted. Having to rely on someone to cook for him, clean for him, even help him get to the bathroom was humiliating, and though he knew his friends didn’t mind, Logan  _ despised _ having to rely on their charity.

Logan’s eyes caught on his book of Greek mythology—it was some sort of sadistic irony, was it not, that the tale of Icarus had always resonated with him. Having to craft his own wings of wax and feathers, back when humans couldn’t grow their own, flying too high, too fast, until he could never fly again. Ambition was his downfall— _ what a parallel _ , Logan thought bitterly. After all, he only wanted to help. Help, innovate, push discovery to places it had never been—but his laboratory was destroyed, his research lost and his wings hopelessly broken. It was all useless.

Downstairs, the door unlocked and Logan jumped (he wasn’t quite used to his friends each having a key of their own), then smoothed down the few feathers he had left to ruffle.

“Your prince charming has arrived!” Roman called from the entrance. Logan could almost see the ridiculous spin he always did in his mind’s eye and had to fight back a smile. “I brought groceries!” Something heavy met the kitchen table with a  _ thunk _ .

Logan sighed and slowly stood up, careful not to jostle his wings too much. “I’m coming,” he called back, then gritted his teeth and slowly made his way down the stairs.

Roman’s beaming smile rapidly faded as Logan fought his way through his constant cloud of pain, taking one step at a time at a truly  _ pathetic _ pace. His wing fluttered anxiously. “You haven’t been—”

“I haven’t.” Logan plopped down on the nearest chair, releasing a hissing breath.

“Well, why not?” Roman threw his hands in the air. “Trying to fight through it won’t make it easier—just because you feel sorry for yourself doesn’t mean you have to go on some—some masochistic pain trip—”

“No,” Logan interrupted, “you don’t know what it’s like not to feel—”

“ _ I _ don’t know what it’s like?” Roman’s feathers bristled, a furious expression on his face, and Logan was suddenly painfully aware of the gap where his left wing should have been. “I don’t  _ have _ anything to feel or not feel anymore, so stop playing the hero and take your fucking painkillers.” His voice had gone unusually cold—Roman only seemed to notice after he’d spoken, his eyes briefly widening in shock before he turned around and began shoving food into cabinets.

Roman had lost his wing when he was young—his twin was born without one of his, and, in some kind of jealous rage, broke Roman’s while he was playing. By the time their parents got him to a doctor, it had been past saving. Roman insisted that it didn’t bother him; that he didn’t hold a grudge—but he had admitted (during a sleepover, late at night when honesty wasn’t quite as difficult) that he missed it; he had dreams of flying and woke up from them gasping for breath, his missing limb aching as if it was still on his back.

Logan’s stomach sunk. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean—”

“Then take your pills,” Roman interrupted, the bite no longer quite as present in his voice. His feathers settled.

“Right.” Logan moved to stand up, then stopped halfway through the motion when the bandage caught on his chair and sent another wave of pain down his spine. He winced. “They’re in the drawer in front of you.”

Roman hummed, setting down the loaf of bread he had been holding as he retrieved the tiny orange bottle. He gave Logan a questioning look, then threw it before he could be told not to.

Barely catching it in his arms, Logan glared at Roman in fond annoyance. “...Thank you.”

Roman bowed deeply. “My pleasure.” His wing flapped happily. “Now, once that’s had a chance to kick in—I could use some help with cooking. Care to join me?”

Finally, Logan allowed himself a small smile. “Gladly.”


End file.
